


Sometimes I grow so tired

by socknonny



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016), Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Monster Hunters, Monster of the Week, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22886542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socknonny/pseuds/socknonny
Summary: It's meant to be a routine chupacabra check, in and out, but then Dean runs into someone who doesn't make sense.And the thing is, Dean has had years to curb his own stupidity. He’s the wrong side of thirty; he’s past that teenage macho crap now. Honestly, he is. He’s died too many times to have pissing contests with some asshole he’s never going to see again. Particularly when that asshole is old enough to know better too—he's clearly pushing thirty—and particularly when he's going to be dead in seconds.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Dean Winchester
Comments: 32
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm... sorry? Maybe? I don't know what I am. Promise I'm not leaving Harringrove though!! I just... had to get this out. I'm not sure if I'll come back to this, so I've left it open, but in all honesty I may never come back so don't hold your breath (or if you are holding your breath, let me know in the comments because otherwise I'll assume I'm writing this for me and the single other person out there in this rare pair hell lmao)
> 
> I'm not as well-versed in SPN as I am Stranger Things, so I'm sorry if I get canon things wrong! Honestly this is just a bit of fun and an incredible writing exercise hahah (these two NEED to meet)
> 
> If I come back to it, rating will prob change with new chapters, so keep tags and rating in mind

It’s meant to just be a routine chupacabra check. In and out. He doesn’t even bother calling Sammy, but when he gets there… he wishes he had.

There’s nothing routine about this bad boy. Eight feet high and a head like a goddamn Venus fly trap. Who the hell said this was a chupacabra? They need to get their eyes checked. Right after Dean checks their face with his fist. 

He dives behind the dilapidated farm shack, scrambling to reload—he’s got a BB gun for crying out loud; who the  _ hell  _ said this was a chupacabra?—and that’s when he realises he’s not alone.

All he gets at first is the distinctive whiff of a pack-a-day smoker and so much hair spray he chokes on air, and then his brain connects the dots and he realises someone is out there beating up that thing with his  _ fists _ .

And the thing is, Dean has had years to curb his own stupidity. He’s the wrong side of thirty; he’s past that teenage macho crap now. Honestly, he is. He’s died too many times to have pissing contests with some asshole he’s never going to see again. Particularly when that asshole is old enough to know better too—he's clearly pushing thirty—and _particularly_ when he's going to be dead in seconds.

But the BB gun is useless anyway.

And apparently that’s all it takes. Suddenly, Dean is out there with nothing but a broken fence post, wailing on this monster like it’s nineteen ninety nine and his dad tearing him a new one for  _ poor hunting etiquette  _ has never gone out of style.

The monster clocks him so hard he sees stars. Of course it does. Because this is stupid.

He has a second to think  _ Sammy’s gonna kill me for dying like this  _ when the monster falls.

The guy steps back, shakes out his fist and—

And fucking stomps out the cigarette he was still smoking.

Dean blinks, dancing lights whirring his vision, and tries to piece together the last few seconds. That was no human punch. But Dean was still reeling from the hit, so he can’t be sure. Still, he braces himself for the next non-chupacabra monster he apparently has to fight tonight, when the guy reaches out a hand to Dean and waits.

After a pause, Dean grabs the guy’s wrist and hauls himself up. They stare at each other—slow, impassive. There’s something mean in the guy’s face, but it’s familiar, too. Dean doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Well,” the guy says slowly, jerking his head towards the thing on the ground. “I don’t know about you, but that was no goddamn chupacabra.”

The comment takes Dean by surprise so much, he can't help but laugh. A genuine, guileless laugh he wouldn’t normally allow when he’s still so unsure about his company. It’s just… it’s like this guy can read Dean’s mind.

“You’re telling me,” he says, trying to cover the slip with a scowl.

The other guy regards him, hip cocked, tongue skimming his teeth in a way Dean hasn’t seen since the bar fights of his youth. Just as he’s thinking  _ this is it, this is the fight _ , the guy sticks out his hand.

“Name’s Billy.” 

Dean shakes it, short and sharp, fingers clenched. He’s kinda pissed Billy’s grip is so firm, but he hides it by being firmer. “Dean.”

“You fight many of these shitheads?” Billy asks, sticking his hands in his jacket pocket.

Dean’s eyes travel to the denim, noticing it for the first time. Christ, man, the eighties called…

Not that Dean’s complaining. It gives him an odd nostalgia for his own denim jacket, lost to some chick’s house pre-millennium. Stacey? Tiffany? Who knows.

“Never seen one in my life.” Dean kicks it with his shoe “You? You’re a hunter, yeah?”

Billy blinks at the word, but just shrugs his shoulder in a gesture that could mean anything. “I’ve seen a few. Never known what to call them, though.”

Dean can’t pick Billy’s age, though it’s close to his. Maybe twenty eight, or just on thirty. The street light flickers, and Dean suddenly gets a good look at Billy’s hair.

“Jesus, is that a  _ mullet _ ?” 

He hasn’t seen one of them in… shit. A long time. For a second, he’s reluctantly impressed. But then something weird flashes in Billy’s eyes—an uncertainty. Like Dean’s speaking a foreign language, and Billy knows just enough to bluff. Just like he did when Dean asked if Billy was a hunter.

Billy grins, teeth too white, too perfect. “You know it.”

Yeah. Something isn’t adding up. Unease trickles down Dean’s spine.

“Where’re you staying?”

Billy looks over his shoulder. It’s a casual, practiced gesture Dean knows well. He’s stalling. Shit, he can read this guy. It’s been a while since he met someone so obvious.

“Little place over on—”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna fly here,” Dean interrupts, scrubbing his fist beneath his nose and sniffing. He draws himself up, prepping for a fight. “I know you’re lying, you know you’re lying, and there’s a dead son of a bitch right there who—” he shakes his head, laughing, eyes wide, “—I’ve never even seen before. And there ain’t nothing I haven’t seen. You get me? So we can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way, but I need answers. Because something tells me this ain’t over.”

Billy draws himself up, shoulders rolling back in a way that makes Dean’s fists clench. “What makes you think there’s an easy way, sunshine?” Billy’s grin turns wolfish.

Dean’s blood sings, begging him for a fight. It’s been so  _ long  _ since he fought a man. Not a monster, not an apocalypse—just a man. 

But he’s had years to curb his own stupidity. And he’s tired. And hungry.

And he can read Billy like a book.

“Burgers,” Dean says simply. “And if you’re a real good boy: pie.”

Billy’s expression doesn’t move. Dean can see his nostrils flare, eyes shining with anger. Then he nods—short, sharp. “You’re paying,” he snaps, then strides off towards the road.

“Only if you’re a good boy,” Dean mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t argue, and after a second, he follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this, please justify my existence by commenting


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are DELIGHTFUL and I'm so thrilled there's more than two of us on board for this ship hahah  
> Good news, I'm definitely finishing this thing. But I'll warn you I can only work on it sporadically so I don't know how long will be between updates. Could be months. And I can't foresee a way to make them work here that isn't slowburn... But if you're here for the ride anyway, welcome XD Now let's make these macho-posturing assholes fall in love

If Dean thought taking down a monster together had broken the ice between them, he soon finds out he was sorely mistaken. The short walk to the car is blessed by one of the most uncomfortable silences Dean has ever experienced, beaten only by the drive to the diner. The saving grace is Billy’s impressed eyebrow raise at the sight of Baby, but that lasts only half a second, so Dean isn’t sure it counts.

Dean considers making conversation on the way over, but quickly decides to let Billy stew in whatever bullshit he’s stewing on instead; people are always more agreeable once they’ve eaten anyway.

Except, it turns out Dean is the one who stews, whereas Billy seems to revel in the silence. Dean has never seen anyone so still. At one point, he even checks the guy is actually breathing. Rhythm checks out, but there’s still something not quite human about him. Desperate for normality, Dean flicks on the cassette player.

This time, Billy’s appreciative response transforms his whole body. As the sound of Scorpions fills the car, Billy smiles for the first time since Dean met him.

The sight of it makes Dean’s stomach twist in an unfamiliar way, and he’s still so hyped up from adrenaline and unease that he struggles to identify the sensation as pleasant or unpleasant.

Funnily enough, that’s exactly the struggle he’s having identifying Billy as well.

A gentle tapping sound makes Dean jump until he realizes it’s just Billy’s fingers on the door, and when he glances over the smile is still there, a little wistful now, as he stares out the window and hums under his breath.

He’s got a pleasant tone to his voice, Dean notes absently, and swings into a park at the diner.

“I haven’t heard that song in years,” Billy murmurs as the music cuts out.

“Yeah?” Dean shuts the door, eyeing Billy up and down—from his double denim to his proudly fashioned mullet. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Billy gets that look again—squirrely and cunning all in one—and the whole things sets Dean’s teeth on edge. It’s not like the guy avoids nostalgia. If he likes the song that much, why hasn’t he listened to it? Shit, Dean would bet money that Billy doesn’t engage with much pop culture beyond the turn of the millennium at all.

The bell above the door jingles, but none of the other patrons look up. It’s too late at night for people to care. Apart from a trucker reading a well-thumbed Vonnegut book and two women near the front, the place is empty.

They take a seat up the back corner, and it isn’t long before Dean has two plates of burgers and fries on the way, plus coffee, because it’s been a long fucking day.

“So.” He steeples his fingers and regards Billy silently for several seconds. “What’s it gonna be?”

Slowly, Billy leans first one arm on the table, then the other. Then he leans forward into Dean’s space and grins. “Ask away, chief. But I’m not answering anything I don’t want to, and you gotta answer my questions, too.”

“Quid pro quo, Clarice.” Dean says with a grin.

There’s another flash of faint confusion in Billy’s eyes, and—seriously? What the hell kind of rock has this guy been living under?

“Okay, that’s question number one.” Dean holds up one finger. “You fight monsters, but you’ve never heard of a hunter before. What’s the deal with that?”

It’s incredible how Billy’s face can turn hard and mean without him even moving a muscle. Somehow, it’s in the color of his eyes, the set of his jaw. Dean doesn’t know if it’s practiced or instinctive. Doesn’t know which answer would be more dangerous.

But, despite the almost visible tension that continues to rise between them, Billy must really want answers, because after a second, he relaxes and answers the question.

“I don’t fight monsters, plural. Just the one.”

There’s something about the way he says it. “Just one kind of monster? Or… just one?”

Billy’s eyes meet Dean’s, and he knows he’s asked the right question— _finally._

“Same monster,” Billy grits out, so soft Dean has to lean in to hear it. “Again and again.”

Silence falls for a moment, before Dean mutters. “I’m no spring chicken when it comes to this crap, but that shouldn’t be possible.”

Their food arrives, and Billy loads up his plate with ketchup, stirring one of the fries around in it as if he’s barely seeing the plate in front of him. When he finally picks up the fry, he stares at it for a long time, eyes dead, as though the food isn’t real.

Then he eats it, and everything changes. He tries to hide it with the same bored mask he was wearing when Dean met him, but he obviously can’t. His nostrils flare, eyes wide, and he begins to devour the food with a single-minded focus.

Dean watches him for a while, wondering how long he’s been on the hunt after that thing, but he doesn’t ask because it’s just personal curiosity—nothing to do with the information he needs.

“So that thing out there…” Dean waves his burger towards the window. “It’s gonna come back?”

Billy shakes his head. “That thing wasn’t the monster.”

Okay… what? Now Dean’s officially lost.

“What—”

“Quid pro quo, Clarice.”

The shit-eating grin Billy shoots him almost makes Dean laugh. He might not have any idea what Dean is talking about half the time, but he picks things up quick. Quick enough to blend in.

Dean files that thought away for later.

“Shoot,” he says, taking a bite of his burger.

“What’s a hunter?”

Dean’s eyebrows lift up as he adjusts, again, to this strange game they’re playing. He’d expected a few more rounds before Billy gave in.

“What it says on the tin. We hunt monsters—vamps, demons, ghosts. And we kill ‘em before anyone gets hurt.”

Dean can count on one hand the number of times he’s had this conversation, and it always goes the same way. No matter how much they doubt him—or want to doubt him—underneath there’s always relief. Relief that someone is out there killing the monsters under their bed. Relief that they don’t have to.

Billy doesn’t give him that; instead, his lip curls in sardonic disbelief. “Before anyone gets hurt?” He scoffs. “Yeah, you tell yourself that.”

Dean bristles. “It’s better than doing nothing.”

“Last I checked, that’s exactly what you did after that thing knocked you down like a little bitch.”

Thanks only to his years of practice, Dean takes a slow inhale and lets it out even slower. “Fight’s over, man,” he says quietly. “Why’re you still looking for it?”

“The fight’s never over.”

Dean sucks in a breath at that. He can’t help it.

“What was that thing, if it wasn’t the monster?”

Billy’s eyes darken with anger. “One of its legs, basically. It’s all one mind, no matter how many bodies it takes.”

Dean freezes. It’s only through a tremendous amount of effort that he manages to put his burger down without his hand shaking. Billy’s eyes track the movement, and he isn’t one hundred percent sure he got away with it.

One mind, many bodies. It’s something he’s seen only once before. In Hell.

When his eyes meet Billy’s, something passes between them. An understanding—recognition on both sides.

Billy’s eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t call Dean out like Dean expects. Instead, the tiny slip of vulnerability must have been what he needed to hear, because what he asks is:

“What year is it?”

They stare at each other, and all the anomalies begin to slide into place.

It isn’t like Billy’s mentally stuck in the 80s… It’s like he never left it.

But the way he eats, the way he takes in their surroundings… The fact he hasn’t heard Scorpions in years… That’s something else. It’s like how Dean felt, trapped for eternity in Hell. Unable to move beyond the year he left Earth.

“It’s 2009,” Dean says as gently as possible, giving Billy a moment to absorb that, eyes wide, breath ragged. “Where were you trapped?”

Billy flinches at that, but they’ve moved beyond secrets, so he doesn’t lie. “I dunno, man, but it’s hell.”

“How did you get out?”

“I didn’t.” Billy swallows, eyes dead, staring at Dean. “I don’t know how long I’ve got, but you’ll disappear soon.” His gaze flicks to the ceiling, haunted, and his voice takes on a dreamy quality, except it’s low and gritty like a nightmare. “The walls will melt… Only food left will be in cans. You’re like the tenth person I’ve spoken to in years—the others rarely make it.”

“The monster hunts them?” Dean asks, chilled to the bone.

“They never know what it is.” It’s like Billy hasn’t heard him. “Some think it’s a werewolf. The chick today was screaming Chupacabra.” He laughs, disdainful, but for once Dean can’t find the humor.

“I’ve gotta cut this thing off at the head, Dean,” Billy murmurs, and it’s like he’s starting to flicker, skin dropping in and out of focus. “It won’t let me rest until I do. It’s in my head. I can’t run. At least the others can run before it catches them.”

He flickers again, almost completely out of sight, and his eyes soften in resignation.

“Nice meeting you, Dean,” he grins, sharp and mean, and this time Dean sees it for what it is—terror. “Thanks for the food.”

Before he even knows what he’s doing, Dean’s hand reaches out and latches onto Billy’s forearm so tight it has to bruise.

Billy stops flickering, and his face slackens in shock.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Dean grits out.

He hasn’t seen anything like this since Hell, and he’s _never_ seen a possession like this, but this ain’t his first rodeo. He knows possession when he sees it, and Billy’s been possessed for years. Stuck in some hellscape, drifting in and out when the monster chooses to hunt.

The tattoo on Dean’s chest twinges in sympathy, like it can sense what Dean is trying to do with his touch—what he somehow _has_ done. Because Billy doesn’t leave. His body remains as strong and clear as it had when he knocked out that creature’s lights.

That thing has a hive mind—one mind, many bodies. Maybe Dean’s touch confuses it. Makes it think he’s part of Billy’s body, and the tattoo on his own chest is strong enough to ward it back.

“How?” Billy mutters, too many emotions to read racing across his face.

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean has to look away. He can’t take someone staring at him like that.

It’s like looking into a mirror; how he imagines he must have looked when Cas tore him out of Hell.

He stands abruptly, not releasing Billy’s arm no matter the sideways glances the waitress gives them.

“Don’t ask questions, but if you want to join the twenty-first century, we need to leave. Right now.” He turns back to Billy just long enough for him to grab the last of his fries and shove them in his mouth.

When their eyes meet, Billy’s mask is firmly back in place in a gesture so familiar Dean can’t help but grin. He’s clearly ready for action, vulnerability locked deep down inside him, just how men like them like it.

“Where are we going?”

Dean winks. “It’s time to get you inked, man.”


End file.
